DethEnd
by Jackie Jackie Spicer
Summary: Dethklok, jaded by Crystal Mountain Records, decides to onpen their own record company. The regular death, mayhem, and destruction of the world ensues.
1. Chapter 1

-1**Chapter One: Business is DETH, Part One**

Charles Ofdensen, CFO of Dethklok, sat at the front of the conference table, waiting with his hands in his lap for whatever his charges called the unexpected meeting for; as he looked around at the metal band, he made a to-do list in his head, inwardly cursing himself for not carrying some of the piles of paperwork with him to the bathroom.

"…Crystal Mountain."

"Hmm? What was that?" Charles questioned since he was not paying attention, something he rarely did.

Nathan Explosion's eyebrow knitted together even more so than usual either out of annoyance or confusion, "I said, 'We want to split from the label.'"

"Hmm!" This was interesting. "I'm not sure we could do that--you did sign a twenty CD contract just two years ago and you've only--"

"Yeah, yeah, we don't care," the lead singer interrupted, crossing his arms across his chest and tipping his chair back with one leg. "We know you're like, uh, legal wizard in these kinda…situations." Nathan's tilting became particularly precarious as he stretched his booted leg out from the table. "So, you know, tear up the contract or something."

"Is there any particular reason that you want to terminate your contract?" Charles asked, having a vague idea why they would.

Toki Wartooth decided to chirp up at the question. "Wes don't wants whats was happens whens yous gone, wit all the no-monies and shows turning-offings."

"Ah." Charles thought as much. "So, you wish to 'split' because of the concert. Understandable." He desperately wish to twiddle his fingers, but he kept control, keeping his arms at his sides. "But the contracts are very iron-clad. It could take years to break them--I suggest you just get the seventeen records done. It would take less time."

"Wes don'ts wants tos makes monies for dem dildos," Skwisgaar Skwigelf said, his nimble fingers playing scales on his unplugged guitar. "Wes wants our owns come-pan-knees unds stuffs."

"That Cor-Nickehl-Shit, Junior is a grade-A ahsshole," Pickles commented between sips of his morning Screwdriver. "None of us wahnts ta work fer thaht turd."

"Do you think you could do it?" Nathan asked, still flirting with tipping himself over.

"Well, boys…" Charles looked around. "It would be months before I make any headwa--"

"We don't care about you getting head." William Murderface tried to drive his signature dagger into the table top, but since it was recently changed to metal, it just bounced off and made annoying clickstabclack noise. "We jusht want you to get ush a record company!"

"…I suppose I could try harder," Charles exhaled.

"Go. Do that," Nathan eloquently said, stretching out his legs fully.

"Ah, Nathan," Ofdensen gave a polite cough. "I suggest you don't do that."

"Fucking robot," the singer snarled, pushing himself even further, somehow, "think he can tell--RARGH!" Nathan made a shloofph noise as he hit the ground, the air pushing out from beneath his wide shoulders and girth. "FUCKSHIT! MY BAAAAAACK!"

Charles sighed as the rest of Dethklok ridiculed Explosion. "For the record, I tried."

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Senator Stampington stood in front of the new, thirteen billion dollar screen stack, staring at the rest pf the Tribunal. Mr. Selectia nodded to him, igniting the start of the meeting. "Inside sources," he began, "have reported that Dethklok is trying to form their own record company."

General Crozier interjected. "How would this effect us? What would having their own company do?"

"Other than a complete control over whatever they put out? Complete destruction of the music industry as we know it.

"Yes, Dethklok under Crystal Mountain has already radically changed the music industry, but with Damien Cornickelson's intervention, we've been able to place a cap on death metal spread." A map filled the screen behind him of the world. Most of Northern American, Europe, and parts of Asia were covered in little Facebone-like skulls. "As you can see, the most effected DethFan sites are in densely populated areas with high industry production. Pop, jazz, and more wholesome music is still much more popular in less populated areas than Dethklok, especially among Christian fundamentalist towns." The Senator extended a hand to an Asian man in a black suit and a crew cut. "For a better sense of the matter, here's Dr. Hans Jefferjohnrichardtomifflicalrechitinalson."

The Tribunal had a collective look of astonishment, their mouths open wide enough for a horse to take a shit in.

"Heh, just kidding. 'Cause, you know, most of our experts have ridiculous names? Get it?" the Senator gave a toothy grin, waiting to see if anyone laughed.

No one did.

"Well, okay then," his mouth became frowny again, "it's not that funny--anyway, this is Dr. Jo Li, an expert on the ramifications of people who have had limited creative control over their work and what happens when they gain complete control over said work."

The doctor coughed into his hand. "Thank you, Senator Stampington.

"Dethklok has always had limited control over what they could indefinably put out, though not to their acknowledgement. Some CDs, before being ship out, had tracks altered or removed completely from the record because of their violence or message. The products have also only been shipped to certain stores in specific cities for years." The map on the screen changed to a picture of a rundown store in a seedy neighborhood. "Mostly in dirty, ghetto-like areas. Companies usually do this to produce a major failure for the band." The picture changed once again to Damien Cornickleson exchanging money with a package company employee. "Cornickelson Junior has been controlling this since the band signed to Crystal Mountain. Though, this method has had limited success with Dethklok.

"But if Dethklok has their own company, they will have complete control over the content and shipping." The map appeared again, a swarm of skulls taking over the world. "With Dethklok in total control, the DethFan syndrome will spread twelve-hundred percent faster than now.

"But there is hope.

"Since Dethklok's records have been altered, their full brutality might turn off their fans with an estimated twenty percent decrease a day. And with the absolute certainty of protest of conservatives and religious nut jobs, Dethklok's CD sales will surely suffer."

"Is there any way we can prevent this atrocity from happening?" General Crozier asked.

Dr. Jo Li nodded. "We are currently trying to get more information on the band manager, Charles Foster Ofdensen, but his past is murky."

"Yes, the my operatives have tried to get the stink on him before, but all the leads were dead ends."

"My team have deducted that his name might be a pseudonym, since his initials spell out 'CFO', his title."

"Yes," the general nodded, "my team also."

"We also have reason to believe his entire existence is fabrication! Though all his paper work checks out, it's always suspicious, like how his birth certificate says he was born in Daletone General Hospital, but the hospital, along with the library and city hall, were mysteriously burnt down, leaving no trace of the hospital, which evidently a small shopping center was built upon."

"Perhaps," the general began, raising one eyebrow, "we should look into this Ofdensen further."

"No," Mr. Selectia soft voice spread in the room. "Concentrate on Dethklok only."

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After a quick trip to the chiropractor with a masseuse and a "happy ending", Dethklok was gathered in their indoor hot tub, discussing their new record company.

"I think we should, you know, name it after one of our songs," Nathan said, enjoying the hot water on his slightly sore back. "Like Thunderhorse or, like…uh…uh….What's another good title that could sound like a company or something?"

"Hahtredcahpta?" Pickle suggested as he sipped on a colorful, rum-filled fruit drink.

"…No."

"Hows 'bouts Dethk-harmonicks?" Skwisgaar suggested. "Doesn'tk harmonicks have to dos wit de musicks?"

"Hey, yeah!" the lead singer chirped as good as someone with a gruff, gravelly, deep-ass voice could chirp.

"Whats ifs wes names it afters de Gears?" submitted Toki, wanting to have his own two-cents put in. "I tinks they woulds really ap-pre-ciates it."

"Hmmm…." Nathan rubbed his square jaw with his blacknailed hand. "Gear Records…hey, Murderface. Get my laptop and, uh, Google that shit."

"What the fuck would I want to Google that schit?"

"So we know if it's taken or not, duh."

"Okay," Murderface inflected a snarl in his voice, "I'll Google 'that schit'."

"No, Murderface, Google 'Gear Records'."

"Fine," the gapped tooth bass player spat. "'G-e-e-r spashe r-e-k-c-o-r-d-e-s."

Pickles rolled his eyes. "Yeah, no, thaht's naht how yoo spehll thaht, Murderfahce."

"How would YOU know, ashhole? Are you fucking Webshter or Wagnall? 'Caushe I don't shee some dictionariesh's ballsh in your mouth!"

"…Murderface, thaht made no sense at ahll. It made so leetle sehnse that we should commehmerahte todahy to cehlibrahte how leetle sehnse it mahde."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Nathan yelled, successfully shutting up both Pickles and Murderface. "Gimme the computer."

Murderface grumbled, but still handed the computer over with no complaints.

Nathan settled the laptop in front of him, the yellow buoys rocking the computer in a constant wave action from the jet stream bubbles. "…'Deer Records'? Yeah, Shitface's search came up with Deer Records, do we still want to do Gear? It sounds a lot alike."

"Wehll, we're obviouslee moore fahmous--I nehvar heard of a Deehr Rehcoreds, so who has?"

"Good point." Nathan typed in "gear records" into the search bar. "Meh, nothing came up Gear Records."

"So, weh're good?"

"Yeah, I think so. I looked up 'g-e-e-r' and 'g-e-r-e' and nothing came up, so, we're good."

"Sos wes is usings my ideas?" Toki practically squealed with excitement. "Wowee!"

"Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft." Skwisgaar's fingers flew faster on his guitar. "Wes uses my ideas all de times--whats dos yous tinks dat make yous spekilleds? Usekins ones of yous's ideas? Pffffft."

Toki, with an adorable-not-at-all-metal pout on his face, sunk into the waters of the hot tub, making Skwisgaar smile and increase his fingers' speed.

"Wehll," Pickles smiled, raising his half-empty (or in this cause, half-full) drink in a semi-toast, "I guess we're now Gear Records. Cheers." He poured the rest of the drink down his throat, draining around ten fluid ounces into his esophagus in less than a second.

His band mates looked at him, surprised. "Uh, Pickles," Nathan coughed, "how--how'didja do that?"

"…I rahther discuss it, ehvar…wait…I rahther nehvar discuss it. Yeah, yeah, thaht works. Nehvar-ehvar-ehvar--wehll, maybe if I gaht REALLY druhnk, if yoo ahsk 'whaht's the most disgusting thing yoo ehvar either stuhck into or had stuhck en yoo'. Maybe."

There was a very long, awkward pause.

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Charles Ofdensen had spent the last thirty-one hours bent over his desk, searching through Dethklok's contract on an half-hour nap and several pots of coffee with just a little bit of "sugar" courtesy of Pickles to, you know, get that little boost.

Charles Ofdensen does not abuse drugs…that…often.

He sipped on his latest cup of coffee, stone-cold from it not being touched for an hour. He had a splitting headache, his hair was frizzy from rubbing and scratching his skull, and the air-conditioning turned off five hours ago, making big, sweaty patches under his armpits and around his neck. He was too absorbed in his work to turn the air on again.

When Nathan had suggested that Dethklok terminate their contract from Crystal Mountain, he knew--hell, he told them that it would take months and months to figure out how. But, even if the band was a bunch of inconsiderate, narcissistic, assholes, Charles had to do it; Dethklok was after all his boys.

The small, wooden clock on the side of his deck began to chime exactly eight times; Charles had been officially working on breaking the contract for thirty-two hours. Three days….

He was going to give up. He was exhausted, stank, needed a shave, take a dump, the works. He pushed his tiredtiredtired body back from the desk, oh so wanting to soak his stiff back awa--

Oh. My. God. THERE IT IS! The LOOPHOLE! RIGHT THERE PLAINSIGHTOHMYGODHOWDIDHENOTSEEITHKGJFGLASDHASJKDKAHSDFKSHADFJH!!!???

Charles collapsed onto the desk, slipping onto the paper and almost ripping it in two (it wouldn't have mattered, anyway, since there were multiple copies). He snatched a highlighter from his penholder, knocking down the metal bin and scattering other writing utensils onto his floor. His hand made quick, precise strokes into the paper two times, exactly on the sentence. He step back, smiling on his discovery he stumbled upon, realizing then that the highlighter was blood red.

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Charles was showered, rested, and coiffured with a smile on his face. He waited until three, doing some unimportant paperwork until the band woke up and dealt with their respected handovers--or in Skwisgaar's case, wash off the smell of pie, Avon perfume, and living decay from sleeping in a pile of fat, old ladies.

The CFO walked into the living room, seeing Pickles passed out on the couch in his tighty-whities. The redhead was making gurgling, snoring sounds, drooling yellowish liquid out of the side of his mouth. Charles eyebrows rose as he noticed the thin trail of dribble snaked down to his underwear. There was a buttered popcorn yellow stain developing on his waistband and fabric.

Soon Nathan, Murderface, Toki, and Skwisgaar walked into the living room, all looking tired, grey, and in pain. All had bags under their eyes, Skwisgaar's looking almost black against his shallow skin.

"Ick," rasped Skwisgaar, "Ams feelingks sicks."

Charles looked at the boys. "Nathan, would you mind waking Pickles up? I have news."

Nathan's eyes, red and droopy like when he had that summer cold, seemed to creak to the drummer, dripping spit like a broken faucet. His nostrils flared. "WAKE UP!"

Pickles' body locked, popping himself from the couch; he screamed all the while, hitting the floor in front of the couch splayed, his leg caught on the cushion. "WHAHT THE FUCK!?"

"Boys, calm down--you could have done that, ah, nicer, Nathan."

"No. I am feeling like a fucked-up whore with syphilis." The lead singer sounded congested.

"Okay, well, first off, what did you do last night?"

"Wells…." Skwisgaar paused to move his shoulder. His bones creaked and popped. "Wes cames ups wit de names fors ours companinks; wes gonna calls its Gears Reckords unds wes justs wanteds to cel-lee-braht."

"Wes mades alls sortsa drinks ands ates candies alllllllll nights longs!" Toki's blue eyes shined slightly from the dull slate they were. "Its was metals."

"I have to schit," Murderface said.

"Ah, good," Charles nodded. "You can go do that after what I have to say, Murderface."

"Well, what ish it?"

"I have found a loophole in your contract. We can make a clean break, keep the band name, and all Dethklok related copyrights, merchandise, and such."

"Oh, wow, you did your job!" Nathan snarked.

"Buts wes gets our owns companies and everythings!"

"Shuts ups, Tokis. It too earlies."

"I should have the paperwork processed by next week."

"Wehll, thaht's great Afdehnsehn, really." Pickles waved his hand. A nameless Klokateer scurried over with a large tray filled with all sorts of colorful drinks. He took a Tequila Sunrise and shooed the servant away. "Where are we gunna live?"

"Live?" Charles didn't quite understand.

"Wehll, this place is, like, Crystahl Mountain's property. We cahn't be here, right?"

The CFO would have blanched, but he had way more self control than the average bear. "Of course, any place you would like to relocate to?"

"Hows abouts de Floreeda?"

"How about no?"

"Awes! Nat'ans!"

"NO!"

"Maybes wes cans gets that Alli-traz Islands? The ones wit the prisons? That's woulds be brutals."

Nathan looked at Toki. "WHOA! Toki! Two awesome ideas in two days? We may have to give you more candy."

"Candies be de dandies," Skwisgaar chortled, "buts de quickers ams des liquors."

"Can we get Alli-traz Island, Robot?"

Charles shrugged. "Well, you are Dethklok. I'm sure California would gladly give over Alcatraz."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Business is DETH, Part Two**

Dethklok stood behind three, death-black vans: The first was being packed with band equipment, Pickles' drums, Skwisgaar, Toki, and Murderfaces guitars and amps, Nathan's microphone, and such; the second had the band's personal belongings and booze; the third was empty for the actual band members, and more booze.

"…and no ten thousand dollar a night hookers."

"Why would we geht a ten thousahnd hooker when a five doller one does the same thing?"

"Less syphilis? The point is that while I'm here, dealing with the rest of the paper work, you are to scope out bands."

Nathan looked at the manager. "We've heard you, like a gajillion times! What do you want with us?"

Charles lifted his pointer finger, "To find a new band for your label, and-" he held a second finger up, "-to spend your money wisely, i.e. do not buy ten thousand a night hookers."

"Why do we need other bandsh anyway? We have Planet Pissh and Dethklok! That'sh, like, a trillion-bazillion-quadrillion dollarsh in profitsh there!"

"Yes, of course, William." Charles handed Pickles an envelope. "Keep that safe. It's emergency money in case the money in your bank account runs dry-which it shouldn't, but nonetheless…don't spend it on booze."

"Hmm?" Pickles clutched the envelope in his hands. "I wasn't paying ahttehntion. I wahs thinking of wahys to use this on booze."

Charles snatched the envolepe away and handed it to Nathan. "Do not spend this on booze."

"M'kay." Nathan stuffed the envolepe into his pocket.

"Now, everything's in order. I'll leave you to your own devices…."

The band turned to the vans, all secretly squealing on the inside at the thought of having an prison island as a recording studio and getting to play with the electric chair.

"…But first-"

The band groaned, and turned around.

"-I complied a list of local bands that you may enjoy. The top-most is a particularly popular metal band around the San Francisco. They have grown a very large fan base and there're rumors that a Crystal Mountain associate may try to sign them to the-their label." He handed the list to Nathan. "I suggest you get them ASAP."

"…ASAP?" Nathan asked.

"Ah, you know, 'as soon as possible'?"

"Why didn't you just say that?"

"Because it's quicker."

"It isn't quicker if you had to explain it." Nathan shoved the piece of paper into another pocket.

"Everyone knows what ASA-you know what, never mind. Just remember what I said and you'll be fine. Bye, boys."

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The van pulled out from the long, long driveway of Mordhaus the Second, Toki looking back onto it longingly, missing his home already.

However, Nathan, Skwisgaar, Murderface, and Pickles were looking around the small van.

"Why the hell do we have a van again?" Murderface asked in a pissy mood.

"Our fans are de assholes und wills distroies de Dethlimos if wes uses its."

"Whatever."

Pickles rounded his eyes and looked to Nathan. "So, whaht did Charlie the Robot give ya?"

Nathan pulled out the crumpled piece of paper and his reading glasses. "Uh, yeah, like what he said, a list of bands." The paper had around ten bands written down, the very first was highlighted in several colors, had arrows and a circle around it, and a small note saying: "GET THEM BEFORE THEY GET AWAY! -C" right by it. "I guess this band the Robot wanted us to check out is…Mad-ether…Madethur."

"Maddie-Thor?" Skwisgaar's nose wrinkled. "Sounds likes de fen-nin-nene-mine produckts."

"How the hell-no, douchebahg, Mahdethur. Ether thaht is mahd."

"Maaaads eeetheeerrr…maaads eetheerr….Mah-dethur."

"Eh. Close ehnough."

"Sho," Murderface said as he pulled out his signature knife, "what'sh the band?"

"We just said that!"

"I mean, what the hell kind of mushic do they play-who are they, you know?"

"…Uh, they are death metal-that's cool right there-and, uh, there's a R. Brage, a N. Valdis, an A. Ephah, and a M. Dunstan."

"All right, good names ser far."

"They do alotta instrumental stuff, but all their songs are good. Huh. The lead guitarist 'has a promising future and with more practice could easily be one of the best'. Metal."

"Pfft," Skwisgaar tucked his arms to his chest, keeping himself from fiddling with his fingers. "I reallies doubts dat."

"I dunno. We just have to, uh, you know….Judge it ourselves."

"Pfft."

"Aaaaaaaawe," Pickles mockingly cooed, "is Skwissy pissy becahuse someone might be behtter thahn him?"

The Swede looked at the drummer, a snarl curving his plump lips.

"Oh, yeah, yer are, aren't ya? Ahspehciahlly after the Toki thing, huh?"

"SHUTS UPS!"

Pickles laughed, spilling a bottle of tequila he had open all over his shirt. He stuffed the wet stains in his mouth to suck the alcohol out.

"Guys? Ams hungry." Toki pulled him out of the window after Mordhaus the Second disappeared over the horizon. It took a while, since their ex-home was thousands of stories high and on a cliff thousand of feet high. "Whens dos wes eats?"

"Here," Murderface shoved a bottle of vodka in Toki's direction, "your favorite."

"Buts I wants reals foods!"

"I think we all know my opinion on booshe being a food, so EAT YOU SCHITTY VODKA!"

"I wants a hankburgers, wit friars ands somes chocolates milkenshakes!"

"Drinking vodka makesh the hunger go away, so drink it before I SCHOVE IT DOWN YOUR THROAT!"

"NOS! Screws YOUS Murderface!"

"I'M GOING TO SCHOVE THISH BOTTLE DOWN YOUR THROAT AND MAKE A NORWEGIAN COCKTAIL IN YOUR SCKHULL!"

Nathan pulled out his recorder. "Idea for a song, 'Dethtini'. Brutal."

Just as Murderface was just about to grab Toki's shirt (but then got scared because Toki had that look in his eyes), the Klokateer driving them stated: "My Lords, there's a diner and gas station right there. Would you like me to pull over?"

"NO!" Murderface screamed.

"Yeah," Nathan said. "Pull over."

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They all crowd themselves into a booth, like mutated, blacken sardines in a lead can. Toki picked up the menu, smiling at the pictures of greasy hamburgers and beer.

A waitress in a plain black and white outfit came over to Dethklok's table. "Welcome to Eaten From Inside Diner and Bar where we're not responsible for whatever the hell happens to you when you eat our food, what would you like to stuff into your gross, fat mouths today? Bread fried in bacon fat and lard with deep fried cheese? What about deep-fried ice cream?"

Nathan stared at her. "Uh…well…I'll have…a salad-with bacon."

"Yeah," Pickles agreed. "Me too-buht with chicken too."

Skwisgaar grabbed the menu out of Toki's hands and briefly scanned it. "Wells, I tinks I'd likes de toasteds BLTs, pleases, wit a beer or fives."

Toki snatched the menu back. "I wants a hankburger, with all de works, big cuts of fries, and a chocolate and strawberry milkenshakes!."

The waitress lazily wrote this down. "Okay, what about you sir?" Her question was directed to Murderface.

"Go find a knife and fuck it, lady!" he spat, tucking his hands under his arm puts, sulking.

"I will, one day," she said. "Your order will be done in thirty to an hour." She walked away with a slight stumble.

"Doods, I think she's drunk er high."

Skwisgaar smirked. "The drunkers de better."

"No, dood, no."

"I don't care what she is," Nathan said. "I just want my food…which is a salad. Fuck."

"Whys dids yous orders de salads if yous don'ts likes dem?" Skwisgaar asked.

"…She made me feel fat."

"Psst, Toki," Pickles leaned over the table, "go ter-the vahn ahnd geht me a bottle of gin."

"Whys don'ts yous just order a drinks when the lady comes back?"

"Because…." He paused. "I don't fuhcking wahnt too. Go get the gin."

"Goes gets it yourself!"

"I cahn't!" Pickles said, exasperated. "I'm between Nat'an and Stahbby McMurdermehn!"

Murderface, in fact, had grabbed one of the table knives and began picking at corner of the booth's seat, skinning it like you would an animal-only it was vinyl and he was using a butter knife. Pickles sat next to him on the inside, wincing everything Murderface decided to lift his arm and thrust into the weak material.

"Fines!" Toki huffed. He wasn't all that angry; he decided that he could slip a little vodka into his milkshake, even though it made it not as good and watery. He pushed himself up and slid out of the booth.

Toki approached the van, seeing the Klokateer wave to him but ignoring the roadie. He opened the back of the van they just spent the last few hours in and began digging around the many cardboard cases of alcohol. He pulled out two bottles from two different boxes and closed the van's doors.

However, as he walked away, a loose, for whatever reason, white thumbtack rolled out from the van just as the doors closed. It made a small click as it hit the asphalt of the parking lot and rolled steadily for a few yards and into the highway, stopping suddenly sharp-point-up and stuck in just-spat-out grape bubble gum. A large, sixteen wheeler carrying a full cargo-load appeared in a heavy heat wave behind the horizon.

Toki was halfway across the parking lot, stopping to try to open the oddly hard to open vodka bottle, as the sixteen wheeler came closer and closer to the parking lot.

Toki heard the satisfying pop of the bottle's cap finally opening just as eight, very rapid, almost gunshot like pops sounded behind him. With a slightly curious state of mind, he turned his head and saw the cargo truck turning, skidding, and flipping over several times before stopping with a sickening crush and flames immediately flaring from the engine.

"Whoa." His lips formed a capital "O". "Wowee."

Several cars crashed into the burning mass of metal and rubber, feeding the flames. People on fire busted from their cars, screaming and running around as their skin slowly melted into the texture of over-done bacon.

"Oooh." Toki slowly backed away, returning to the diner.

"Hey, dood, whaht's all the noise?" Pickles asked as the Norwegian handed him his bottle.

"Somes stupids womans driver crashed her trucks and now everyone's runnings arounds on fire. Pretty brutals. I'll nevers eats bacons again."

"Oooh, I say."

"Ifs it's two tings womens can'ts dos," Skiwsgaar interjected, "is plays de metals und drivers."

"Ah, yes," Nathan said, "I would really like to stretch that point-woman cannot make any sort of decent metal that isn't involved with periods or unicorns, or make a left turn. Especially doing a left turn while playing metal; they can take out a whole city block that way."

If any of the guys cared to turn around towards the window at this moment, they would have seen some poor soul, pressing his or her body against the glass, his or her mouth open in a silent scream because the glass was bullet and sound proof. The eyes of the person rolled back into the head, before sliding down the window, leaving a trail of blood, pus, skin, and that stuff that's in blisters in thick, gobby streaks.

"Ja." Toki nodded.

"Womans aren'ts just brutals enoughs. They lacks de edge and real spirits of de gen-air. Theys shoulds justs sticks too de cookings und de sweeings!"

Nathan shrugged his shoulders at the comment. "Well, I don't know, uh, going that far. I mean, they just can play metal or remember how to use a blinker. That's all."

"They's all vun-ree-ah-bulls und mens needs tos protects dem! Theys are de least brutals creatures on de Earths!"

"Okay, we fucking get it. Shut up-oh, food's here."

The waitress they had before stumbled over to the table with five large plates of food on a large, black tray. Her hands slipped from under the platter, and it fell with a _BANGclankleclink. _"Your food."

The band members watch her sway away.

"Geesh, what a bitch," Nathan said, dragging his salad plate from the tray to settle in front of him.

Again, if any of them cared to look out the window, they would have seen the same person as before stumbling up from the ground, only large chunks of its front missing with bits of dirt, leaves, and other debris lodged into its expose muscles and sores; looking down and realizing this, it began screaming (not that they could hear) and then preceded to crack its head against the glass, making spider webs out of broken glass and blood.

"Hey…you guys hear thaht…thumpin'? Meh, nehver mind-whaht wahs I-oh, yeah-I hahte bitchy waiters, she ain't gehttin' a tip." Pickles grabbed his salad and began picking the chicken and bacon pieces out of it.

Toki took a big gulp of his milkshake before greedily tearing into his hamburger. The juices from the meat, pickles, and tomatoes dripped into his Fu Manchu along with ketchup and mustard. "Dis burger is awesome."

"You know," Nathan said, forking some lettuce, "this isn't half bad-I mean, I hate salads and pretty much everything healthy for me, but…this is good." He speared a cherry tomato, watching the fruit burst and pour clear red liquid and seeds all over the crotons and onions., which looked oddly similar to the person at the window's head, which caved in and splattered white and gray matter all over the diner's glass. An old woman looked up at the precise moment of the head exploding, making her dribble vomit and tomato soup down her chin as she continually stared.

Then Nathan's crotch started vibrating.

Well, it wasn't his crotch, it was his Dethphone, vibrating so very, very much. He grabbed the phone before it could stab something with those very, very sharp spikes.

"What? We're eating."

"It's only been three hours, Nathan," Charles Ofdensen said on the other side of the line. "And you brought Poptarts."

"…We ate all of those." Nathan quickly stuffed his mouth with salad, crunching it with his teeth in embarrassment.

"Well, the reason I called was to inform you I'm about to send my representative to finalize the papers…." He paused for a moment. "…Are you…eating salad?"

"…" Nathan's chewing slowed down before stopping completely. "Well, that's good, right? You getting that stuff done and junk." He pushed a tomato around on his plate, like hockey-or a disembodied head. Yeah, that one.

"Well, it's good that you're eating salad."

Nathan gave a small grunt of annoyance. Why did Ofdensen always know what he was doing?

"I always know what you're doing."

"Wait…what?"

"You asked, 'Why do you always know what I'm doing'. It's because I always know what you're doing. I have tabs on you. Everywhere. Each of you. I even know when you're talking a dump."

"That's…weird. And gross. And it's just plan creepy."

"Oh, and, well…California isn't giving up Alcatraz-"

"WHAT?" Nathan yelled, causing most of the restaurant patronages (except for Deaf Danny) to turn their heads at the outburst. "But…we WANT it…A LOT! I mean, they know who we are! Why the fuck should those granola, yoga…er…BEATNIKS get Alcatraz all for themselves. Fuckin' selfish, that's what California is. Seriously."

There was a cough on the other side of the line. If Nathan knew any better, he could have sworn it was to hold back a laugh. "Well, I think the beatniks would think you're being selfish, since you want the island for yourselves. But, that doesn't matter. I secured a small, empty recording studio and leased it for a year. That should be plenty of enough time for another arrangement I have in progress."

"Where's that?"

"Well, it's a surprise. I think you all will like it. I have to go now."

"Okay," Nathan said, slowly bringing a forkful of salad to his face. "Whatever. Bye."

"Bye." Ofdensen placed the headset into the phone's cradle, making a soft click. His eyes then lolled to his representative: An unhooded Klokateer he was having specially trained in business since…the incident. He was plain looking man in his late-twenties/early thirties with a mild temperament Charles had hired to regain some of the paralegal team. If you would have looked in his file, you would have known he was fresh out of Stanford, collects guitar picks, and had a strange affinity for girls who wore neon colored nail polish. Of course, number 16654 didn't know he had a file like THAT and perhaps that file doesn't even exist.

But…he doesn't know that.

"Here," Ofdensen said as he took out a file from his drawer. "take this. There's notes, several photo copies, and an advancement for you."

Number 16654 picked up the manila folder, which as he picked it up causing a black card to flitter to the floor. He picked up the card-a Hot Topic gift certificate for fifty dollars. He wanted to make a comment-something about finally being able to pay his back taxes with this generous bonus-but he kept silent.

Charles, noting a slight grimace on his associate's face, opened a drawer in his desk and pulled up some papers. "I promise you, you're actual pay for this job will have at least four zeros at the end." He grabbed a pen. "If you want you could…free style." He quickly wrote down a few sentences on the topmost paper. "This is a bit of information I scrounged up in my absence. It could be…profitable. I suggest you use this wisely." He slid the paper towards his cohort. "I would use it later on…as security, but make it known that I have it, just to tell you."

Number 16654 slipped the paper into his hands and saw the tiny, neat writing, his eye brows shooting up in surprise. He looked to his boss and nodded once, which Ofdensen returned. He folded it in three, quick and neat fold and placed it into his suit's breast pocket.

"Good," Ofdensen nodded, flipping through the stack of papers. "Now, just make the meeting to the point. Damien has an extremely short attention span."

16654 nodded again and turned heel to the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Business is DETH, Finale; Back and Blue, Part One**

**OR**

**It Figures This Would Happen**

Dethklok had made its way to San Francisco in a matter of sixteen days.

The average commute would have taken around ten days, but with Murderface's constant need to piss, Toki always wanting hamburgers, and the frequent alcohol-related barf pit-stops, it took longer. Six days longer in fact, if you didn't know the math of it, almost a whole week behind schedule.

The DethVan (as the band members began calling it) was parked by a used book store and dry cleaners. The actual band was standing outside of a liquor store just a few buildings down.

"Okay, here's the deal," Nathan said, pulling out the band list from his pocket. "We gotta find this club called Nuclear Winter and get the band Madether to sign this paper-" he motioned his hand towards the Klokateer, who held up a piece of paper with what looked to be about several thousand lines worth of size .0002 font printed on it, "-before the Crystal jerk-offs do. Are we clear?"

A round of "yeahs" and "jas" responded.

"Okay. The club should be about two blocks that way." He pointed a jet black nail towards an alley way which appeared to be the generic alley way in which rapist, crack dealers, and murders are seen lurking. "We have about a half-hour before their show starts, so lets try to do that so we could, you know, actual hear them play and shit."

"I've shaid thish before and I'll shay it again: We don't need any other band on the label. Dethklok and Planet Pish are all we need."

"Oh, really, Murderfahce?" Pickles scoffed. "How wehll didja bahnd's ferst ahlbuhm go?"

"Fuck yourshelf, you Howdy Dowdy rip-off!"

"GUYS-just both of you, shut the hell up. Both of your voices are annoying as shit. Let's get moving before I rip larynxes out."

Though two of the band members gave Nathan a hard look (to the back of his head), the five went walking merrily on their way, ironically without any incident even though the previous description of the alley way was very ominous. Toki even found a twenty dollar bill a mugger dropped after molesting and disposing of a crack whore he killed when he ran away, thinking that those black vans were a dealer he had some beef with.

How lucky!

Within a few minutes, the band made its way to a very derelict building; they stood, looking at the blocky structure.

"It looksh like a big, dirty cshinder block." Murderface stepped up next to the door, unzipped his pants and began to urinate, aiming at a cockroach he saw on the ground.

"Jeesus Christ, Murderfahce!" Pickle whined. "I'm prehtty sure thehre's bahthrooms in the cluhb….Might ehevn be behtter on your knees…?"

The bassist shook and tuck himself back into his underwear (what kind of underwear? Do we really want to know? He might even not be wearing any). "Nah, I'm good."

"Thaht's…good…I guehss."

Nathan squinted at the building-he noted that it was completely made from cement with two darken windows on each side of its face. It has a broken neon sign which spelt out "T e B k r" if you read the pink-lit letters, but "The Bunkar" if you read all the letters. The door had faded-black paint, peeling from constant wear at the top and bottom-even the knob was painted, at some point, with bits of red paint speckling the brass color….Or, at least he thought it was paint.

That was pretty much it.

The singer looked down to his paper again, seeing the numbers in the address. He looked to his right at the next building and then to his left to that one. This building was the only one that matched the address, though he couldn't be sure because it had no plaque. He shrugged, grabbing the knob anyway.

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The interior was a little different from the outside….

"HOLY SCHIT! Thish plache ish ASHWESOME!" Murderface delicately put it.

The other members had to take in the…awesomeness… in silence for a little while.

The walls of the club were completely covered in a mural; when you would first enter, you'd see a mushroom cloud illuminated with lights that were inserted into the wall. Spreading from the cloud outward, complete carnage; the left side of the club was covered in highly-detailed zombies, melted and burnt bodies, people getting stabbed or shot, and a desolated town. The right had mostly a desert scene and the best part of all:

A GIGANTIC bar.

Yes, forty to fifty feet of pure, unadulterated booze. The bar itself was made of cinderblocks and mortar, all splattered with "blood". The barstools weren't "stools", but stack cinderblocks that seemed to swivel or turn, since a man sitting at the bar turned his seat around and walked off to the bathroom or some other place that no one cares about. The shelves that held the alcohol were made of thinner cinderblocks and were packed-PACKED-like glass sardines in a stone can. They were even in alphabetical order-from absinthe to vodka and everything in-between. Pickles practically got a boner.

As the drummer practically skipped to the bar, the others scattered around, mixing into the crowd. Nathan, however, stayed by the door. He saw a passerby with a black and green shirt, seeing it had the word "Madetheur" written over a strange looking radioactive symbol.

"Hey," he said, "what do you think of that 'Madethur'? Hmm?"

The passerby smiled, wide and toothy. "They're SO AWESOME! The guitar is all 'vroooo-rooo-roo-ro-ro-rorororororoooooo, do-doo-diddly-RRRRRRRRRRREEEEERRR-RUUUUUUU-RAWR-RAWR-RAWR-'!-" he said that all while air guitaring, "-and then the drums are all 'bah-BAH-booombooombooom-bahbahbah-tattie-tat-tit-BAH-bambambam', and the bass is all 'fooom-fooom-fofofo-dooooummm-dooom-rooo-rooo-dooooo-"

"Wait," he interrupted, "you can _hear _the bass?"

"Yeah! It kinda makes it deeper-even darker and grittier! TOTALLY legit. They're, like, my second favorite band-after Dethklok, of course, and the lead guitarist is _really_ hot."

Nathan's left eyebrow decided to try to get closer to his hair for a minute. The passerby wandered away as Nathan thought _Is he gay?_

He walked over to the bar to the barkeep, who happened to be serving Pickles a drink from a VERY large glass with a big, blue straw-it had an overwhelming smell of pineapple.

Pickles turned to him, "Heh, Nat'an," his smirk grew, "they gahve me AHLL the pineahpple ruhm-in this GLAHSS! I think I might shit mysehlf with hahppiness!"

"Okay, cool," Nathan sat and asked the bartender, "What do you think of the band 'Madethur'?"

The bartender looked up with his very light blue eyes-it was almost as if he had cataracts. He looked old with his silvered hair and everything, but he didn't have that many wrinkles. "Hey, they brin' in a lotta customers, if that means anythin'. They're pop'lar enough 'round here tha' you pretty much jus' have to say what night they're playing an' the house is packed."

The singer nodded.

"In fact, there's been a couple a' record companies tha' offered them some contracts."

"WHAT?"

The bartender backed off. "What the hell?"

"HAVE THEY ACCEPTED ANY?" Nathan scream/asked…screasked, screeched?

"No! They're decidin' about' it. I think they got three possibilities goin' on. Whatssit to you?"

"None of your business." He paused. "What bands have inspired them?"

The bartender scowled. "I don't know-I don't care." He went off to the other end of the bar.

Nathan growled, "Fucking rude."

The lead singer turned the stool around to look out into the club. The crowd was growing, especially around the corner he was facing, so he, using his brilliant mind and decided that was where the band was going to play. He stood to walk to the corner, but not before stealing a few sips out of Pickles' glass ("WHAHT THE FUCK DO YA THINK YER DOING?"). It was too sweet for his tastes anyway.

He moved to the crowd. Skwisgaar and Toki were there, too, trying to pick up some chicks that wore too much face makeup and too little clothes for his liking-maybe even too much clothes for his liking. He pushed several people out of the way-which, yes, made them scream, fall down, even break a wrist or four-and stood by a square piece of wooden floor, the equipment set up, waiting for the band to come out and play.

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Number 16654 had done a good job breaking up "his" contract with Crystal Mountain, so much so that Ofdensen decided to give him a bonus with six zeros at the end and a promise to buy his house and car back from the bank. However, since Number 16654 services were no longer required as a dummy manager, Charles offered him a in Gear Records as head legal consultant.

"No," the Klokateer said, shaking his head, "I'm going to go back to school. I really am tired of working for a place I have to sign a waiver for everyday and ring a bell every time I see a dead body for Korpse Kleanup."

"Hmmm," Charles nodded, "that's alright then, but you do remember the procedure for decommissioning right?"

"Reprogramming and a memory wipe of all the years I've worked here."

"Yes," Charles reached into his pocket and pushed a button on the remote he kept on his person at all times. "I'll make sure that you get memories implanted, though. It will take a little longer, but you'll have some story about the money…and, of course, a reasonable story for the last seven months. Yes, of course."

The door behind Number 16654 opened; two hooded Klokateers came in, each grabbing one of his arms.

"Make sure," Ofdensen said to the Klokateers, "that he has memories implanted-something about working for a grumpy accountant or something."

"Yes, my Lord," the Klokateers chanted in unison. They escorted Number 16654 out the door.

Charles waited around three minutes after his office door clicked softly closed. He had some important calls to make.

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There was an eerie silence, you could here the florescent bulbs above the wooden floor stage hum; crowds were never that quiet, but they continually got softer when eleven come around. It freak the shit out of Nathan.

His band mates gathered behind and to the side of him.

"Is so….Shushy."

"Ja," Skwisgaar agreed with Toki. "It creeps me de fucks out."

You could hear everybody breathing.

"Dood," Pickles whispered, pointing towards the front of the club," there's a line out the door!"

"They musht be…decshent." Murderface crossed his arms.

The clock's large hand reached the six-Dethklok hear a door open, but couldn't see where it was in the brightly lit corner, but the crowd went bat shit crazy. It made them almost wet their pants to hear the crowd shoot up several hundred decimals in .05 seconds. Pickles clutched at his chest, thinking he might go into cardiac arrest.

The first person into the wood square was very short, even shorter than Pickles, if only by an inch or two. He wore a plan white t-shirt and baggy pants with orange high-tops. His hair was short, brown, and combed neatly into a part, which reminded Nathan of the Robot's hair, only longer and with sideburns. He had light brown eyes, freckles, and small, poofy lips. The combination made him look twelve. The only thing that alluded him to being older was a pierced ear and a tattoo peaking out from under his sleeve. He picked up a six string bass and stood behind the microphone.

The next person had a dirty shirt on-which was all they could see of his outfit since he immediately sat behind the drums. He had a buzz cut, a soul patch, and strangely red-brown eyes. He scratched his chest before picking his drum sticks and twirling them in his hands.

The third person came out and picked up the last guitar on the stage and stood slightly behind the small guy behind the mic. He has loose blond hair, brown eyes, and was tall-super tall-a GIANT compared to the five foot nobody on his left. Oddly, he wore a white dress shirt. Dethklok looked at each other, silently agreeing that if the kid made it to their label, he sure as hell wouldn't be wearing something as gay as that.

The forth person wore a purple tank top, tight black jeans, cowboy boots with roses, and her black hair long.

Her hair long.

HER.

She came out with her own guitar-a cherry red , its paint slightly chipped off around the pick guard. She stood to the left or the bassist, poised as she placed the guitar strap over her head.

"No," Nathan said, "you've got to be kidding."

Skwisgaar bared his teeth.

"I think that's the lead guitarist, too," Nathan added, "because a guy said the lead was hot-I just thought he was gay."

"Yous gots to bes jerkingks my legs!" the Swede snapped. "A womans-leadingks-a metals band? What are dey to sing about? Sprackles und recipe for cookie? I tink I'll throw up."

"She's super talls, though," Toki pointed out. "Looks at hers! She's as talls as Nathans!"

"Sos she sassy-squash wit a vaginal. Do dat makes it better?"

"She has cool eyes too!"

"Cools eye? What-" Skwisgaar looked at her, seeing for the first time that her eyes were very, very black. You couldn't distinguish the pupil from the iris, it was so deep. "Whoa."

"I knows-blacks as Norwegian metals!" Toki chirped.

"Blacker than black," Nathan added. "Blacker than blacken blood coffee."

"Blahcker thahn coals duhnked en blahck licorice pahint."

"Blacker than my mutilated shoul that hash frosht bite."

Skwisgaar paused, mulling it over. _Blacker than raven feathers…_

"Do you think that's what they mean by 'Spanish eyes'?" Nathan asked.

"She tan, toos."

"Do ya think she wahs hehcho en Mehxico?"

"A refugee from the Mexshican metal shcene?"

"That's kinda cool, you know, black eyes and all. Damn, I wish I had black eyes-that would be really cool, staring at people and shit? All like a demon or possessed."

"It would look rehally neet, too, with yer blahck hair and pahle skin-like Dehath personified."

Nathan rubbed his chin. "Death personified…." He pulled out his tape recorder. "Idea for song-the Grim Reaper…just, like, an ode to him or some shit. Make him have black eyes." He clicked off the device. "Maybe if she's crappy, she can be, like…a cover model or something…."

"I'd take a bite out of that, rowr," Murderface purred.

"Eeeeeeewww," Dethklok and many people in the vicinity of the area said, trying not to imagine Murderface taking a "bite" out of anyone; however, one person must have, because he grabbed some long, lavender sticks out of the flesh plugs of his neighbor and stabbed his eyes out, screaming and rushing out the nearest exit.

"Am I really that repugnant to you people?" he asked sadly.

"In every sense of the word," Nathan replied.

"'Sup there, Bunkarheads?" the short bassist asked. The crowded clapped and roared. "That's good, 'cause we got a special song for you tonight-we wrote it in about five minutes and it sucks! We hope you enjoy it!"

Nathan chuckled. "At least he's honest."

Madethur's drummer began pounding a moderato beat, nothing fancy or intricate. Soon the bass and guitar joined in a not-too-complicated melody. It wasn't fancy or intricate, but…it got to you, and you wouldn't notice until your head started banging. Nathan felt he heard something like it-something similar. Maybe they were trying to copy it…it was…metallic…something like an encyclopedia but metal. Metallic…encyclopedia….Encyclopedia…metallic….He couldn't put his finger on it, so he shook off the notion and continued listening.

_There's a woman here, dressed in black and red _

_With painted lips as crimson as fresh blood,_

_Her eyes are two black spots inside a skull,_

_Like coals burning, they glow…._

Madethur's singer had a deep singing voice, nothing as rugged or refined as Nathan's, but it was like straight coffee-smooth and bitter.

_So, now you know,_

_But I'll warn you once more,_

_Her name's Black Widow_

_And she's coming through the door._

Okay, now it REALLY reminded him of some sort of metallic encyclopedia, especially the way he said "door"-"doooOOOOOOoorrrrrrah…." Nathan cleared his mind, trying to listen to only the music and not the voice in the back of his head.

_There she is, standing so still she looks dead;_

_She smiles wide just like a predator. _

_She will wait about for someone to lull,_

_Into her web, a fly…._

_But, you now know,_

_Heed my warning once more,_

_He name's Black Widow,_

_And she's coming to the floor._

_There she dance, the seducer of mislead,_

_Just a grin, drawing in men with a tug,_

_With a poison kiss she hypnotizes,_

_Into her den, they stow…._

_He did not know,_

_The warnings just before,_

_Her name's Black Widow,_

_A deadly human lure._

The music slowed, the drums softened to let mostly the bass and guitars play unadulterated.

_So now they creep back to her hole_

_With the promises that were told_

_But instead, the man lays dead,_

_Stripped of his clothes and a bite in his throat._

Nathan liked the song, but he felt like he heard it before-several times-

And then came the guitar duet.

Oh, it was wonderful, with both the rhythm guitar and lead making it sound like a spider-he had no clue how the music could sound like a spider, but it did, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The notes felt like they were crawling on his skin, dozens of pairs of eight-little legs skittering on his arms, neck, and legs. He decided that even if the song seemed done before, the guitar solo was an absolutely gold. They had to have Madethur on their label! Even if it was just the guitarists!

_Just so you know,_

_This has happened before,_

_Her name's Black Widow,_

_She'll steal your soul for a score._

The song ended, people cheered, and Dethklok looked at each other.

"Dood!"

"Dude," Nathan nodded.

"That shong shucked."

"Oh, shuht it Murderfahce-sure, the SONG suhcked, buht did you hear thaht FUHCKING SOLO? My skin CRAHWLED! CRAHWLED!"

Toki grabbed Pickles' arm, squeezing it. "Its was so awesome! We should do stuffs like that! Not just speeds but creepy-crawly solo and duets like that! Peoples would loves it!"

Skiwsgaar, contrary to his other band mate, was furious. A woman just out guitared him; well, it wasn't speed, but she played it beautifully, and her fingers, though they didn't move as fast as his, made his skin crawl. She had skill that surpassed him in an aspect of guitar he had not even started tapping: Making it sound less like a guitar and more like something else. He'd have to double his practice time to catch up with her-he'd even have to learn to slow down his fingers so she could do half the things she did.

He smirked to himself. At least she could never be as fast as him.

"Alright, yeah, took five minutes to write that song-Natalie and Avery just stuck that solo in to make it decent!" the lead singer/bassist smiled. "Now who wants to hear Classic Madethur?"

The crowd screamed. Why no one had rushed the stage was strange-you take two steps and you were there, you didn't even need to step up or anything. The fans must have really respected Madethur or something to not try to rip them apart with adoration, unlike Dethklok fans.

"Alright, then!" the bassist plucked a few notes, "we're gonna to a little ditty we haven't done in a while-do you all remember it? Called it 'Heldentenor-'"

EXPLOSION OF NOISE.

"Okay, you do."

He started plucking the strings of his bass again, matching the guitarists' tune. The drums were much better in this song and had a pulsing sound to it. After a while, it was obvious this was one of their infamous instrumentals. It was littered with solos, with an especially long, loud, and complex one for the female guitarist.

The rest of the songs in the set were all instrumental as well. At first, Nathan didn't like the idea of something having no lyrics in it, but he certainly enjoyed this Madethur stuff.

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After the set was done, some people left, some stood around watching the drummer and lead singer pack up the equipment, most were trying to get autographs and the like from the lead and rhythm guitarist.

"If you just wait," the lead snapped, annoyed, "we can get some stuff from our van and sign that."

"We made a bunch of t-shirts and CDs!" the rhythm smiled. "Wouldn't you like that?"

The eager fans followed the two out the back door, presumably to the van. Dethklok stood and watched he whole scene.

"Hey, you, drum guy," Nathan said to…the drummer. "Aren't you mad, having to haul that crap?"

The drummer just grunted as he unplugged and lifted an amp.

"What that means in Maccabee," the bassist/lead singer said, "is 'I'd rather have clean-up duty than get molested by leg-humpers.'"

Nathan hummed.

"He doesn't talk much," he picked up the cymbals. "I think I've heard him say, maybe, three syllables one time. I thought that shit was amazing." He walked over to Dethklok. "I'm Ron, Ron Brage."

"Nathan Explosion."

Ron's eyes doubled in size. "The fuck? No WAY!" He looked Nathan over. "HOLY SHIT! You ARE Nathan Explosion!" He smiled, "Did you see us perform?"

"Thaht's prehtty muhch the reason weh're here, kid, in the front any everything." Pickles said.

"You were in the front?" the kid asked, mostly to himself. "Why didn't I see you?"

"People tehnd not ta see us fer some reason."

The lead and rhythm guitarist returned, through the door, quickly, sighing when the door closed.

"I fucking hate fan duty," the girl frowned.

"NATALIE! AVERY! MACCABEE! It's fucking DETHKLOK!"

Avery's blond eye brows shot up. "No shit?"

The drummer set down his amp and joined Ron and his other band mates in a half-circle around Dethklok.

"Okay, this is Maccabee Dunstan, our drummer," Ron introduced the buzz cut guy. "He's Avery Ephah, our rhythm and vocals when we have them, and she-" pointing towards the girl, "-is the Super Sexy Minx, our lead and sexy guitarist."

The girl scowled and punched her small band mat hard in the arm. She extended her fist, only open, towards Dethklok's lead singer, "I'm Natalie Valdis, lead guitarist and lyricist-expect for that song we played tonight. That was all Ringo's."

"Ringo?" Nathan asked.

"Him, the ass hole who tries to get into my pants all the time." She pointed towards Ron.

"It's not my fault your sensuous and I want to go up on you! It's my testosterone's!" He leaned towards Dethklok. "She'll break one day, I know it, and then she'll have no resistance to my charm."

"Okays," Skwisgaar scoffed, "so yous lead AND is de lyrics writors? Pfff."

She stared at him, very angry. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Yous a womans-womens can't express brutalness dats de metals genres has. Wit yous in de pictures, dis bands is crappy pop-punks."

Oh, how the air thickened with wrath the moment that sentence poured out of his mouth. All the other members of Dethklok felt this disturbance in the force and backed off, which all the male members of Madethur did the same. Skwisgaar, noticing that his band m-


	4. Chapter 4

_It unfolds, my Lord, as you planned, except for a few hiccups, but all is smoothed over._

_**Excellent, my Son, soon our reign will begin, just as it is foretold.**_

_Øh, höw woñðrõüs Yòµ åré, Öúr Fâ†her! Wê wïll šèé†hë škîéš þloóìëð ãš þêƒorë!_

_**Hush, now, You are weak. Do not talk, You must save Your strength.**_

_Ÿès…réš†…._

_What shall We do now, Master?_

_**We will continue as before. No difference. No changes. Everything will come to fruition if We do not stray. **_

_Åñð†hëñ Wê wïll __**KÎLL **__†hë __**ÛÑFÁÏTHFÚL**_**-**-_ðëš†róÿ †hë __**TÂÌÑTEÐ! **__ÏT WÎLL ßE __**ÇLEÄÑ **__ØÑÇE MÕRE! Á __**ÇLEÄÑŠÍÑG **__MÔRE __**ßEÂÜTÏFÜL**__ THÅÑ THE RAGNARÖK-_

_**SILENCE!**__** I said to rest. Dare You disobey Me once more?**_

_Ño, Fâ†her…._

_**Good, rest, We all must rest. Our time has come. **_


	5. Chapter 5

_Note__: I suggest those who have weak constitutions to note that this story has been updated from T to M-why? Because of a very violent, gory, gritty death and disgusting sex dreams. EXTREMELY disturbing sex dream. It's enough to make a practice Freudian therapist empty his stomach of his week's meal and never eat again._

_You've seriously been warned. _

**Chapter Five: Back and Blue, Part Two**

"Okay, uh, I have to say-as fun as it is, you shouldn't punch people. It tends to lead to some misunderstandings later."

"He called MY band punk-pop. PUNK. POP. That shit's not even MUSIC-it's just corporates trying to get the 'alternative' crowd in with their wishy-washy lyrics and crappy-ass tunes! Playing it at Claire's and Sun-Pac and fucking Forever-21-fucking Forever-21 shouldn't even think about playing shit that boasts ANY sort of individuality-all they are just fucking copies of each other-oh, look different, but only within the confines of what's in or magazines! I HATE fucking megastores and just-."

Nathan backed away, watching the girl fume, her arms shaking at her sides, her fists clenching and unclenching-the weird combination of growls, hisses, and teeth grinding emitting from her snarling face. That he decided was the last time he ever wanted to give advice to someone.

Ron stepped forwards, his hands up. "Hey, hey, Nat? Nat-Nat? Natty? Natty-Nat-Nat? Nat-alat-alat-alat? Atta-atta-Natta? Nadda-adda-adda-adda-eh? Batter-batter-uppa?"

The girl stopped and stared at him with a pitying and confused look on her face. "Why didn't your mother get that abortion again?"

"Latta-batta-atta-girl!" he continued.

"You want me to do what I did to him?" she pointed to Skwisgaar, collapsed on the floor, the left side of his face already swelling.

"Well, I guess it depends on how hard and where you do it," he said plainly, "but, if you're going to rehash, no, no I wouldn't."

She crossed her arms, pouting, "Call my band pop-punk, asshole, kill him."

"You know what makes me happy? Hug!" Ron spread his arms wide with a smile to match. "Commmmmooooooonnn, hug?"

"Heh-heh-heh-heh-no, no hugs from you. Not after the last time."

Pickles asked: "Whaht hahppened the lahst time?"

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_A year back, Ron had just broken up with his girlfriend-the fifth one that month. He was bawling more than he did the last four, so he was obviously upset. _

"_You know," he sniffed, "I thought she would be the one, but then she was all 'Yeah, I'm not gonna date a loser who lives in a van,' and then she dumped me!" He grabbed the last tissues from the off brand ClEANSNOT® box and blew is nose. Once the one ply paper was fully saturated with his mucus and tears, he tossed it into the pile on the ground him, a foot-high hill of phlegm and salt water._

"_You know you're going to clean that up," Natalie said, sipping on a beer as she sat next to him. It wasn't that she wanted to sit next to him or talk to him, or even comfort him, it just happened that she was sitting on the cooler just outside their van, waiting for Avery and Maccabee to finish getting some food when Ron decided that he needed to sit in the lawn chair and impose his thoughts and feelings upon her._

"_I mean, she was so awesome!" he continued, not responding to Natalie's comment. "She was smart, funny, had a car-"_

"_-the clap," she added under her breath._

"_-good career, I mean, she was…awesome!" He swiped his nose on his arm, leaving snail slime behind. "I think I need a hug."_

_Natalie took another swig of her beer. "Good for you."_

"_Can…can I have a hug?"_

_She looked at him, his red, swollen eyes, crusty nose, and pleading look on his face hitting something within her heart. "Here," she pulled out her wallet and tossed him a ten dollar bill. "That should be enough for a hug. Now go away."_

_Ron stood up from his chair and embraced her anyway. He squeezed her shoulders tight, burying his face into the crook of her neck. "I'm-just-so-SAAAAAAAD!" he gasped between the sobs that shook his body. "How will-I-e-ever-find true love-agaaaaaaainnnn?"_

"_If you want to find tomorrow, you better let go of me _now_."_

_His cry intensified, making Natalie feel even more annoyed than she was before. _

"_Seriously," she said, clutching the neck of her beer bottle harder, "if you don't back-off, things will be broken over your head-"_

_That's when she felt his hand on her back-her _lower _back._

_And, as promised, she broke her beer over his head. _

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"Oh, okay then," Pickles laughed nervously, "youra _psycho_."

Ron rubbed the back of his head, feeling the little bumps of his scar.

"So, _Ron_," Natalie smirked, "do you still want a hug?"

"I think I'm good."

"Good." She rubbed her knuckles, which were just beginning to bruise a bit. "Now, what are we going to do with the Swedish Dick on the floor?"

"Wait a shecond, you're telling ush that for hugging you, you shmasched a perfectly good, frothy beer over what'sh-hish-name'sh head?"

"Ron," Ron interjected.

"He didn't just _hug _me, he grabbed my ass when I didn't want to be touched," Natalie replied to Murderface. "Didn't I make that clear?"

"Come now, an ash squeezshe is a compliment! It'sh like shaying to a girl that sche hash nishe hair or pretty eyesh-only you don't ushe wordsh, but your handsh!"

Nathan laughed. "Yeah, no it isn't. No wonder you never get laid-you're a fucking moron."

"Then how are you shuppose to talk to the ladiesh, huh, Nathan?"

"Actually _talking _to them," Natalie answered, "and getting to know them."

"I washn't ashking you, you-you," he decided to avoid the word "cow", "…YOU. I wasch ashking _Nathan_."

"That's amazing, he has a vagina too? What a small world."

Toki kicked Skwisgaar's boot, then knelt down beside him. "I really thinks we needs to calls an am-boo-lence or something. Is he breathings?"

Murderface relaxed his face and just looked at Natalie. "If I hadn't already drained the lizshard, I would pish on your crappy bootsh, jusht sho you know."

"And I would tie it up into a poodle, so that would never happen again, so I suggest you shut your trap, PugFace."

"No, seriously, guys," Toki interjected, pushing on his fallen peer's chest, "I really thinks wes needs to dos somethings. He's not evens yellings whens I says he has the ladies' fingers."

"He's ahlright," Pickles waved him off, "he's twitching."

Natalie looked down while rubbing her knuckles again. "I have to admit, I might have been…rash, but, you know, that jerkoff had it coming."

The bartender-who was there the whole time, wiping down the counter-said, "Why don' we put 'im in the back room? Gotta couch in there."

"Sounds good," Ron said. "Avery, Maccabee, hoist and ship out."

Avery scoffed. "Why the hell should we do it? Why not Li'l Miss Prissyfits?"

"One, Maccabee's big, two, Li'l Miss Prissyfits' hand is hurt, and three, we've been standing around talking and YOU haven't done diddily-squat. Go get some air time, go on."

Avery grumbled under his breath as he and Maccabee gathered Skwisgaar up. Maccabee had his legs while Avery did his best to support and not injury the Swede's head any more than it was. He tsked to himself, pitying his swelled and darkening cheek. "Geesh, Nat, he might need his face re-rearranged."

She smiled. "I take pride in my work."

Skwisgaar was carted to the back room-only being dropped once.

"Okay, well, anyway, we came here for a reason," Nathan said as Avery and Maccabee joined up. "You see, we're staring up our own record company and we need bands."

Madethur's members were shocked silent.

"Yeah, and, you know, other than that crappy first song, we liked your style."

Ron emitted a delighted squeak, Avery and Natalie looked at each other with grins, and Maccabee didn't react.

"We're thinking you'd be our first band to, uh…solicit?" he paused, "Yeah, solicit."

"YOU want US?' Natalie said already knowing the answer.

"Even after she punched the shit out of Skwisgaar?" Ron added, making Natalie give him a dirty look.

"Especially after punching that dickweed's lights out. Hell, we beat each other up a lot. I've been wanting to do it a while myself. He's been being a big dick lately."

"So you," Natalie said, "want us on your label?"

"…Yeah."

"Us on your label, you want?"

"I don't think changing the order will change the answer."

"Omigod, I think I peed my pants!" Ron shrieked, shaking his fists excitedly. "This is the break! THE BREAK! Thank ye Rock Gods for blessing us! Tee-hee!"

"Okay, but the first rule in Gear Records: No doing whatever the hell you just did ever again," Nathan said, pointing to Ron. "Also, do you two-" he motioned to Natalie and Ron, "-have something going?"

"Ick, hell no!" Natalie snarled. "He's just between quote-on-quote 'girlfriends'. If he doesn't have his dick in some hole, he tries to find one and I'm the closest." She looked at him, noticing him squirming. "That, and he has crabs."

"I do not!" Ron protested, while he wiggled his hips and tried to scrape his thighs together.

"Just wait-the next girl that comes around here, he'll get her number and a date-and give her a seafood dinner."

"I," Ron punctuated, "Do. Not. Have. Crabs!" He pulled on a belt strap on his pants. "It just happens that my underwear is pinching my balls right now."

"Then just adjust it," Natalie said, "it's not like you've never done it in front of me before."

Ron looked at her, then to his crotch, before slowly moving his hand in front of his fly and scratching like mad.

"HEY!" Pickles snapped, "JESUS! Aht leest turn ahround, you inconsiderate bahstard!"

Ron did, sighing all the way.

"I _told_ you he had crabs."

"Tahke it easily, dood. Ya only geht one-at lehast one thaht isn't yer pinky."

"Goddamn motherfrrrruuuuuuu," he who was scratching swore under his breath. "Shitty-ass, mother cheap shit-shit-shit-shampoo-didn't do shit! Goddamn!"

"You should know, I'm right alllllll the time," Natalie smirked.

They were quiet for a while longer, waiting for Ron to quit scratching himself. "You know," Ron said with his back turned, "I think I'll go to the bathroom."

"Dood!"

"Jus' clean up af'er yourself," the bartender said, picking up a blackened glass and cleaning it. "I a'ready cleaned in there tonight, so, you know, no more." He lowered his voice. "No more…."

"Alright, we have a contract for you to sign," Nathan said as Ron went to the bathroom. "Read it over and stuff and Murderface will notarize it."

"He's qualified for that?" Avery asked.

"Yesh, yesh I am."

Pause….

"Well," Avery said, "where is it?"

Nathan patted himself down, pulling out only his glasses and the wadded up band list. "Where the hell is it?"

"I thinks that Klokateer hads it," Toki pointed out.

Natalie plucked the wadded piece of paper out of Nathan's hand. "…'Nuclear Winter'? The hell is that?"

"Tha's wha' this club is called," the bartender said, absently.

"The what's with 'The Bunkard' out in front, then?" Avery asked, jerking his thumb to the front.

"_Nuclear_ Winter-_nuclear_."

"That explains the sign above the bar." He pointed above the shelf to a very thin piece of wood that said, "This club is called Nuclear Winter".

"That wasn't just thrown there," Natalie rolled her eyes.

"No," the bartender said, "it was nailed."

"Okay, enough of this-Toki," Nathan pointed to the back room, "go check up of Sleeping Beauty. Everyone else, lets all go to the van so we can get this contract done."

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Skwisgaar woke up in the club's backroom thirsty, with a headache, and a very large bruise swelling up on his cheek.

The backroom was much like the main part, with a zombie apocalypse theme expanding. When his eyes focused, he saw a cinderblock desk, bookshelf, and even computer. There was a wilted plant in the corner beside a plywood and cinderblock filing cabinet. He was on a couch that he saw was-surprise-surprise-made from cinderblocks, but had a very nice, thick cotton cushion over it. Judging by its smoothness on his arms, it must have been at least eight hundred thread count; very expensive taste.

He looked to his left, seeing Toki sitting in the cinderblock office chair, and said: "Shes hit me."

"Really goods shots too." Toki said with a smile. "She's like a li'l female Nathans." He paused. "Maybe that's why her name's Natalies? And she has long black hairs, and is talls…she evens has nose likes him, did you sees that?"

"I didn'ts sees anytings, Tokis. Shes caught mes off-guardens, dat all." He sat up, clutching the left side of his face.

"She has nicers skins then him thoughs, tan and stuff, and black eyes, and pouty lips. Nathans has very thin lips."

"…Uh, ja, Tokis. He does." Skwisgaar rubbed his cheek, making it hurt. "Dere's ices?"

"Nos."

"Wells, I need ices!" the lead guitarist pursed his lips. "Gets me ices Tokis."

"No-yous alive, yous get it!"

"Of course ams alives Tokis. A girlie hit me, nots a man."

"Yous _were_ out for a whiles, Skwisgaar."

"How longs?"

"It tomorrow."

The Swede's jaw hit the floor, but he quickly got himself together and "pfffted". "Pfffft, it was almosts midnights. What is it nows? Fives?"

"Ja," Toki said, "five _p.m.s."_

Skwisgaar blinked. "Okays, shes cans hits pretty wells for a girls, I admits….I would like to press charge."

"Against a goirl?"

"…Fines. She'll gets her cameuppence, dough."

"Against a _goirl?" _Toki repeated.

Skwisgaar scowled. "Dens whats ams I supposes to dos!"

The Norwegian looked at him, stroking his chin as if he had a beard/Fu Manchu combo. "Yous shoulds just lets it go, lets it go. It's not worths it, to holds the grudges against peoples-especiallys whens them peoples cans makes yous faces get bruise like giant grapes fruit."

"Wha-"

"Your face is HUGE. Yous shoulds sees it-is likes when Pickle was all beattens yous!"

Skwisgaar placed his hands on either side of his face, feeling the difference between check sizes.

And, _damn_, there was a difference.

"Yous knows, I tinks I shalls do de revenge upons hers, dos someting to hers dat wills makes her hurts-em-motionalies."

Toki had a sympathetic look on his face. "Ams that a bitch moves though?"

"She HITS me, Toki, dat's bitch moves."

"Wells, anyways, I don'ts thinks nobodies wills lets you-wes gots all them signs up on the labels already."

Skwisgaar's eyes darkened. "What de HELLS? Without mes!"

Toki shrugged, "Yeahs, yous see…."

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_Madethur, Pickles, Murderface, and Nathan had just exited the club…and then they walked to the van…not…not much happened during that walking part. Toki soon came running out to join them, leaving Skwisgaar still unconscious after checking up on the Swede. _

_They reached the street, seeing the DethVan and their Klokateer chaperone only a feet strides away, leaning against its side and smoking; the Klokateer quickly dropped and stomped out his cigarette and bowed. "My Lords…."_

"_Who's that?" Natalie asked._

"_On of our Klokateer things," Nathan said nonchalant, "you know, butler, maid, minimum-wage slave…hey, that's a good one!" He paused. "Chained to the greasy stove/Feeding mindless zombies by the drove…mopping up the vomit-no, blood off the floor/Herding up homeless for the Soylent Green store…meh, I'll work on it later._

"You_, get the contract." _

_The Klokateer pulled the paper out from his back pocket, holding it out slightly. "Here it is, Ma-AAAAAAARRGGH!"_

_Between the minion saying "it" and "is" a dog appeared on the street corner; between the "is" and unfinished "Master", the dog jumped up and grabbed in its huge, rabid jaws the Klokateer's arm, dragging the man to the ground as it shook it head, digging its teeth deeper into the flesh and muscle. _

"_OH MY GOD!" Ron squealed like a little girl, which he wasn't. _

_The Klokateer was still screaming as the dog let go of his arm and went to the face-its teeth easily ripped through the cloth mask. With his face exposed, you could see the man's drawn mouth opened so much you could see down his throat, his brown eyes wide enough to see his life flash before them (it was short, only thirty-one years, but he had to admit that his mid-twenties were very full…of gonorrhea). _

_His eyes got even wider when the dog tore his face off along with his eyelids. _

"_AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" he continued screeching, "AHHHHHH-AHHHHHH-AH-AH-AH-AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"_

_With its mouth, filled with yellow, pink, and red foam, the dog clamped into the man's jugular, ripping it open; a crimson shower sprayed across the mutts muzzle and eyes, turning his matted, blond hair into eye-catching vermillion. It turn turned to the stomach, opening it to get to the soft, delicious meat in the gut._

"_Oooooookay," Nathan said as the two bands backed-up, "who wants to get some dinner first? To…discuss…band stuff."_

"_Yeah," Avery nodded his head, eyes wide with the left twitching, "that…sounds safe."_

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"Waits," Skiwsgaar held up his palm, "what about de contracts?"

Toki blinked. "…oh…OH!" He scratched his cheek. "We has verbals contricts right nows, that they promise to signs. Nows, as ams sayings…."

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_Madethur and Dethklok were in a local Dimmu Burger joint. Nathan, Murderface, and Pickles were the only ones actually eating. Toki was making trolls and hats out of napkins; Ron was blanched, shaking, he's teeth chattering as if he was cold, though he was most likely in shock; Maccabee seemed unaffected, for the exception that he muttered, "Not hungry" under his breath-that _never _happens; Natalie and Avery decided to get some soda and water respectively, so Natalie was nursing a cola while Avery was wiping down his bottled water with a sanitizing napkin. _

"_Why are you wiping that down?" Murderface asked with his mouth full of his Mealstrom Burger. _

"_Germs," the boy stated as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. He opened the bottle and a new wet-nap, cleaning off the moth piece. _

"_OCD," Natalie said just as causally as Avery did before. She took a big gulp of her drink._

"_I think I hahd thaht once," Pickles said. "It itched-a lot."_

"…_Obsessive-compulsive disorder has to do with your brain, not your crotch."_

"_Eh, close ehnough."_

_Natalie snorted before taking another sip of her soda. _

"_So, other than…that," Nathan began, "do you think you'll sign?"_

"_Of course!" Natalie said first, slightly annoyed that he would even think it would damper her spirit._

_Avery nodded, taking his first sip of water. "Yes."_

_Maccabee grunted a "mmm-hmm" and kept quiet._

_Ron was still, staring at Nathan in disbelief. _

"_Good! Good-good-good," the man smiled. "…so…anything to, you know, do after midnight around here?"_

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"Thens whats you dos?"

"Ohs, Skwisgaar, it was awesome!" Toki smiled. "Wes gots some candies and weeds and somes Jacks Daniels and threw rocks at whores and cracks heads, and thens wes wents to this strippers club-Natalies didn'ts likes it there, so we wents to this other clubs and gots drunkers, thens wes brokes in a morgues and wes poseds withs some hot, dead chicks-Natalies took pitchers! Shes has thems on her phones. Averys was grosseds out with the bodies and Rons was just standings there all the times, but others than that's, it was the bests nights ever!" Toki laughed. "Toos bads Natalies beats the shits out of yous-I thinks you'd woulds have likes it."

Skwisgaar was a little disappointed not getting to throw rocks at whores (and pretending they were his mother) or getting the chance to pose with dead chicks (figures since old woman are just a step up from how low he could sink). He was even more disappointed that he missed a chance to throw rocks at Natalie ("Oop!" he would say, "I means hits de whore behinds yous!") or make Natalie "accidentally" kiss a cadaver ("Oh! I means to adjusts necks to makes better pictures! Ams sorries!"). Oh, the opportunities to be a passive aggressive bitch! how he would miss thee!

"Anyways, Skwisgaar, we'res going to dinners. Woulds you likes to comes?"

"Wheres?"

"Oh, wes thinkings of that pizza place a few buildings downs-yous know, Pan Tera's. They has wine."

PERFECT! "Yeahs, okays, sounds cool. Ams really hungry."

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Skiwsgaar entered the main room haughtily, trying to maintain some dignity even with a giant purple flower of a bruise that had bloomed on his face.

"Whoa," Nathan said immediately. "She did a number on your face."

He only scowled and crossed his arms in reply.

Murderface, however, laughed, almost pissing his pants when he saw. "Th-that'sh the besht thing I EVER shaw!" He held his hand against his dethhandles. "I mean, look at you! You musht bruishe like a banana for a woman to caushe that mucsh damage!"

"What did you say?" Natalie's voice was thick with unrelenting darkness.

"Well…um…you know." Murderface paused. "Not a lot of girlsh can punsch ash effectively ash you! You're a mashter of punsching! Not even shome men can do what you did!"

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever."

Skwisgaar brushed off Murderface's comment and asked: "Cans wes go eats? Ams hungries. I coulds eats a Budweisers Clausdale."

Natalie blinked. "I thought they were _Clydesdales_?"

He shot her a dirty look. "Shuts ups."

"Yer right," Pickles stated, pushing himself up from his seat. "He's just pissy. He tehnds to hahte people who are behtter and smarter thahn him."

"Better than him?" Natalie asked. "Geesh. I'm not! No one is."

Skwisgaar Skwigelf was beside himself. "Wha?"

"Yeah, I mean, you're a fucking jerk, but you're Skwisgaar Skwigelf: World's Fastest Guitarist! You were Agnostic Priest, Smugly Dismissed, Gognogmug, Gangorgar Aldilio-all sorts of other bands I can't pronounce-which were all great bands, and you're in Dethklok now, the biggest band in the world, which wouldn't be as big without YOU as the lead. You're guitar skills can't be match and those fingers fly on those strings like you're charged on cocaine!" She looked at him with genuine admiration. "You were one of the few reasons I even decided to pick up the guitar!"

Skwisgaar's smirk grew three sizes that day, soaking up the barrage of complements like a dehydrated sponge.

Maybe in a few decades when she got into her forties, he might let her due the honor of giving him a hand job.

"But you're a fuckwad, just so you know-an arrogate, self-centered, sexists asshole who has the emotional complexity of a leaf."

Smile deflation.

"I don't respect _you_ anymore, only your talent. I hope you're happy with yourself."

"Verys," he snapped lightly. "I'ds rathers gets pythons stuck up my ass den any respects from dildos like _yous."_

Natalie clenched her fists and bared her teeth. "Careful for what you wish for-" she stuck a finger in his face, "-you might just _get it." _

"Okay," Nathan pushed himself between the two lead guitarist. "You know it's time to leave when clichés are being used. Let's get some pizza."

Natalie gave one last dirty look before nodding to Nathan; the singer shoved Skwisgaar forward while he gently pushed the girl along by her shoulders.

"I'm not your father," he said, looking at both Natalie and Skwisgaar, "but you two shitheads better straighten out before I lay down some corporeal punishments."

"Do you even know what 'corporeal punishments' are?" Natalie asked, being rhetorical.

"…No…what is it?"

She sighed. "Instead of grounding, you spank."

"Oh." And for a few seconds, Nathan's brain processed this-spankings. The image popped up in his head-

"OH GOOD LORD NO!" he covered his eyes with his palms as if he was trying to rub something out of them.

"What the hell is wrong?" Natalie asked.

Nathan couldn't look at her for a very long while, his hands still covering his eyes and everything, but he was mulling over the terrible image that just _popped _into his head. Originally, he was trying to imagine giving Natalie a bare-bottom spanking-a very kinky thought-but it didn't turn out that way, no.

The woman over his knee, her frilly panties dangling off her ankle as she squealed, turned into his _mother_.

_**Nathan! **__his dream mother cooed, __**I've been a baaaaad girl! Punish me! **__She arched her cottage cheese bottom into the air, but thankfully not high enough for anything a son should ever see of his mother's to be seen._

It was enough to-

"FRRRAAAAAAGH!" Nathan vomited onto Natalie's boots. Several times. Again and again and again until he was dry heaving. He collapsed onto his knees into his own excrement, not caring if his pants were going to be covered in waffles, pizza, and whiskey mush. "I think…I think I need a drink."

He felt a hand on his shoulder and a glass was placed into his grasping hand. He drank eagerly until he saw it was Natalie that gave him the glass; the water was quickly expelled from his stomach again.

"Yous making him sicks!" Skiwsgaar shouted, pushing Natalie away. "Gets aways from hims!"

Nathan, now on all fours on the floor, heard her back-off, saying "Why the hell would I make him sick!"

"Yous uglies! Yous has the nose of uglies hags! Whats dos it matters?"

Nathan was sweating by now, so he placed his cheek on the concrete ground, embracing the cold like a Frosty the Snowman would. He had to calm down-Natalie nor his mother were in any sort of sexual situation-none. He thought of manly things, like baseball, beer, apple pie, severed heads, beer, which all was very soothing, especially beer. Pausing for a moment, he decided to try to picture some other woman bent over his knee, like Pickles' ex-P.R.; god, was she hot. He imagined spanking the shit out of her. Then he tried to imagine Natalie again, which only had he cough and dry heave more. Why the hell someone as descent looking as Natalie would make him imagine his mother was a mystery to him, but there was one thing he learned:

He would NEVER think of Natalie as someone to have sex with ever again. EVER.

"Huuu-huuu-uuuh," he gagged. Well, one last time just to make sure.

He felt several sets of hands on his shoulders and under his arms, pulling him up so that he could sit up.

Avery's face came into view, his mouth and eyes both seeming to frown. "Are you alright?" he asked, "What happened?"

Nathan shook his head, not wanting to tell what had just happen to him. He swiped his forehead with the back of his hand, a glaze of sweat now covering his hand, but it made him feel better. "I'm…I'm fine." He pushed Avery away. "What the hell are you? Gay? Get away from me. Just ate something that decided to revisit my taste buds." He pushed himself up from the floor, disguising the best he could his wobbliness. "Now, let's…let's just get some food already."


End file.
